


Endless Moonshine of the Sober Mind

by ThePsuedonym



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Amnesia, Drinking, Drinking to Cope, Escapism, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Memory Loss, Non-Linear Narrative, This is not what I intended
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-14 12:51:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7172507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePsuedonym/pseuds/ThePsuedonym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His mind flowed like fine white wine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Endless Moonshine of the Sober Mind

**Author's Note:**

> The title is (clearly) a play off the film _Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind_.

We’re best at showing our love when we hurt those closest to us.

We’re only human, after all.

 _Step up to the plate_ ; the thought is unbidden, unwanted, yet there all the same. Staring down at his feet, he tried not to think about why he’s there and instead focused on the welcome mat.

It looks vaguely like home base, funnily enough; a tiny little thing only a few shades off from the coveted snowy color that he half-remembered from his childhood. Mud was encrusted to its surface in the shape of a sole, the fibers depressed from where they were stepped on.

Not nearly clean enough to have been just replaced, not nearly old enough to be homely, either.

In any case it was undoubtedly better than its predecessor; that one had had large holes worn through it, enough that the concrete it was intended to hide had been visible to the world.

He’s stalling, he knows. Also knows that he’s not very good at it, nor at lying to himself.

Truth be told, he is by far better at running away. Easier, too.

Hell, running away and coming back at the last minute had become an art form in his hands.

To the cynical and unforgiving human mind, alcohol is literally the greatest and most perfect culmination of living godhood ever created by mortal hands. That singular chance, the ability to escape the clutches of a depressing reality was a miracle left as of yet unmatched.

The only shame was that the escape was only a temporary solution, gleefully dragging sufferers back into consciousness with cold and unforgiving claws.

Father dead by drink, mother run down by the intoxication of a careless driver.

One had taken lives; the other had saved them.

Oh, the beautiful irony of it all.

Despite knowingly stumbling down the path forged and worn by his ancestors, despite being warned off by his blood, he couldn’t bring himself to care. There was nothing _to_ care about, not when a few precious hours could be hazed out with the liquid nectar and golden drink of the gods.

Right up until it came tumbling back in a rush of pain and curses and blurry vision.

A master of running away from his problems and into the welcoming arms of alcohol, he was.

Eventually he turned away from the drink. Didn’t run, didn’t hide, only forced his mind to focus upon other pursuits when his tongue felt dry and his glass was empty. The idea of a liver pockmarked with holes and scars hadn’t seemed very daunting at first, but had become enough of a terrifying reality that he roughly, unforgivingly taught himself to crave more practical ends when his mind began to itch and fingers began twitching for the bottle.

That wasn’t to say he gave it up entirely; a finger or two didn’t hurt, not when he drank for the flavor and not for the haze. Limiting himself was necessary, pinning himself into the corner was an indisputable requirement. More creative outlets were necessary.

His mind flowed like fine white wine.

The last time he ever drank for the sake of drinking was when his closest friend died.

Just a second too late. Just a second too slow.

It was a long and slow and lonely night.

Immediately after he awoke he instinctively knew two things: that he needed to face his problem, like an adult and not a drunken teenager; and that he needed to dodge it once again. Contradictory though it may have seemed to an outsider, it made perfect sense to him.

In the ultimate gesture of escapism, he died.

Or very well may have died; it was all the same to him in the end, metal and darkness and so, so cold.

It was cold.

Lonely.

Slow.

And then, light.

Part Two: Second Chances.

That was what he would have called his life if it was a film. Or a novel. Neither thought was particularly attractive, given that his entire life was a mess from birth to not-death, but of the two, the silver screen was far more appealing to his critical tastes. It had that sense of nouveau nostalgia, familiar and new and exciting, even if the topic was wholly depressing and grounding.

Everything came full circle: he had run away for so long that he had come right back to where he had started.

Damn it.

The one person who had come to draw him out of his misery-induced spiral of depression – the only one who _could_ , who _would_ – the selfsame woman who had been one of a pitifully miniscule number of people who had unconditionally cared for him without expecting anything but who he was and what he was, needed his help.

He was late, unforgivably, inexcusably late and beyond all hope of retribution, but not so much that their last goodbyes couldn’t be exchanged.

Revolutionary Peggy Carty was suffering from Alzheimer’s disease, an illness characterized by uncontrolled though not particularly rapid neurological degeneration. It was as though all of her memories were leaking out of a dropping faucet, fibers of a quilt of memories splitting apart and fading into nonexistence, secrets and knowledge dispersed into nothing.

Eventually everything would disappear and her very body would forget how to live.

An unfair end to an extraordinary woman, yet here he was, dragging his feet to meet her one last time.

He had to make it count.

That had been nearly two years ago; Peggy had died alone late one night, slipping peacefully away in her sleep. Her illness had stagnated somewhere along the borderline of the moderate and advanced stages, allowing her to recognize what little remained of her family during their last meeting earlier that day.

Or so he had been told; he had only been able to muster the courage for the one visit.

Now he visited at least once a month, once a week if he could squeeze it into his schedule.

Unlike Peggy, as her eventual death had been due to circumstances that had lain entirely beyond his control, this was entirely _his_ fault. He should have been able to protect his teammate and now _this_ was the result, he should have—

Pushing the thoughts away, he focused on the door in front of him. He wasn’t late – the only occupant inside wouldn’t notice even if he never came again, though their caretaker undoubtedly would and _would_ make his life even more of a living hell – but he would be unless he started moving.

He shifted the bag he was carrying to his other arm and pressed the doorbell, absently hearing the faint buzz that alerted the occupant inside. Footsteps, muffled through the door, followed, and the wooden barrier opened up to reveal a slightly shocked man behind it.

“Capsicle?” he says, not quite a question, not quite a statement. Steve smiled, as stilted and off-balance as he had been during the first visit. To the other, his current appearance may very well have been the first.

“Please let him in, sir,” a voice requested from the ceiling. Still surprised, Tony moved aside without complain and Steve entered the small residence. It was modestly sized but still small compared to the former CEO’s other considerably expansive properties.

Steve meandered into the kitchen, absently noticing Tony following behind him like a lost puppy, faint bewilderment fading from his face to be replaced with open curiosity.

He set the brown paper bag onto the table, ignored the responding snort and mutters about plastic with a patience long-born of dealings with such an attitude and removed the bottle from within the bag: it was a Riesling, given to him by Pepper because her duties as head of Stark Industries prevented her from coming with him on this particular visit and for the foreseeable future.

It was, according to her, a particularly fine specimen and had been followed by some description of the flavor that Steve couldn’t make heads or tails of and opted to forget it almost immediately.

He was a soldier, not a sommelier, after all.

Keeping his gaze fixed on the wine, he folded up the bag, set it aside. “Pepper chose the wine,” he tells Tony. “She said it was a good brand and that she’s sorry she couldn’t make it this time.”

When he hears no answer he glanced at Tony. The man’s eyes are sharp but unfocused, as though he is seeing something far in the distance. Following his gaze, all Steve could see was the empty yard; he probably got distracted by a squirrel or a bird again. He poked at the other man, lightly; Tony blinked and defensively flinched away from the touch.

“Capsicle?” he repeated, suddenly wary and confused. Steve sighed and smiled tightly.

“I’m here.”

No further explanation was offered, not that any had been requested. With familiar steps Steve moved over to the cabinetry, pulled out a corkscrew and a pair of wineglasses after a moment of fumbling. Setting them onto the table he clumsily uncorked the wine and poured it out, just enough to get him through the next few hours but not nearly what it would take to get either of them staggeringly drunk.

He felt more than saw Tony hesitate before approaching; without prompting, he handed one of the drinks over.

“Why are you here?” Just a tinge of suspicion colored his voice. It hurt.

A shrug and a sip of the wine to cover the pain. Pepper was right, it tasted rather good. “Just wanted to visit, I guess,” he lied. It made no difference if he told the truth there. It was all forgotten in the end.

 _Forgive and forget_ , he thinks scathingly. _You can never forgive if it can’t be remembered in the first place_.

It’s no excuse not to try and earn forgiveness, however, even if he knew that is was an exercise in futility, despite how steadily it sapped at his will.

Nearly two years of the same routine, twelve visits per year, definitely more, was very taxing. He closed his eyes and wondered for a moment if there was ever going to be an end, or if it was his eternal torment for always coming up short in life.

Not healthy enough. Not strong enough. Not fast enough. Not _good_ enough.

Tony made a sound of appreciation. It sounded rather distant to Steve’s ears. “Good wine,” he compliments. “Where’d you get it?”

“From Pepper.”

Steve lifted his glass in a wordless toast. Tony’s glass chimes as they connect and when he moved to drain the rest of the alcohol the light refracted through the drink caught his attention. The liquid distorted everything seen through it and the effect was mesmerizing. Tony had no such compunction and downed the rest of his allocated wine.

“She’s got good taste,” he hummed after a moment, “almost good enough to get smashed on.”

Breaking out of his stupor Steve looked at him, faintly amused. “Almost?”

Tony shrugged back, nonchalant, and poured them both another glass. This was the most relaxed he had ever been during any of Steve’s visits. Maybe it was the alcohol. “Almost. There’s a lot of reasons not to drink yourself into a blackout.”

“Such as?” Not that he needed any reasons – he had closets full of them – but that was Tony, and his reputation spoke for itself.

Unexpectedly, the man’s expression darkened and he muttered, “It hurts people.” Then it cleared as his attention drifted before he suddenly stared at the wine, looking as though he forgot he was holding it.

“It’s been a long day,” Steve found himself saying and excused himself, promising to come back again in a week or two. Tony’s stare shifted from the glass to him and didn’t come off until he was out of sight. Once in the safety of the hall, the solider asked aloud, “How is he?”

“No worse than before, Captain,” JARVIS answered, British tones crisp and smoot and undeniably a relief after talking with his scatterbrained creator for so long. Responsibility was a heavy weight, and the entire matter was one particular addition Steve had difficulties bearing. “Sir’s memories do not appear to be returning either, however.”

A soft and sad lull developed in between them, an unspoken chasm of everything that neither could bring themselves to say. Instead, quietly, “I’m sorry.”

“I know, Captain. Neither Miss Potts nor I blame you for what has happened.”

“And Tony?”

JARVIS allowed himself a considerate silence to ponder the question. “I do not believe there can be forgiveness if the transgression cannot be recalled, Captain,” he answered in a eerily vague echo of Steve’s earlier thoughts.

Said man leaned slightly to peer back into the kitchen and caught sight of Tony staring off into the yard again, tracking something invisible to Steve’s eyes. The weight on his shoulders felt heavier as he watched the amnesiac man.

“I know. But it would be easier if he hated me.”

Shortly after he left; on the concrete path, he considered attempting to drink himself into a stupor. It was certainly worth a shot, even if he failed.

Maybe if he tried hard enough he could blur the line between reality and fantasy for just a moment — and just forget.


End file.
